


Muggle Mysteries

by crowry



Series: Brave as a Noun [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:31:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowry/pseuds/crowry





	Muggle Mysteries

Draco has been to Potter’s home several times now—more than he can count, actually—but there are objects in it that Potter never bothers to explain. He can guess, of course, that the hideous afghan on the couch comes from the same place as all of his hideous sweaters, each with large, Potter-themed motifs worked into the front of them. Considering he has eyes and attended Hogwarts with several Weasleys, he has never bothered to ask. There are the old text books stacked haphazardly against walls next to towers of what appear to be muggle novels, and an equally haphazard pile of mixed muggle and wizarding newspapers. In the kitchen, there is a calendar that features an illustration and small biography of one house elf per month, which Potter does not keep up to date, fixed to what Potter calls “the fridge” with a magnet. There is an electric kettle and a contraption for making very bad coffee, and on the ceiling there is an electric fan with electric lights. None of these are mysteries. Draco has been forced to learn how to operate each of them, usually with grudging assistance. He has researched electricity and finds it fascinating, though he enjoys regularly ridiculing Potter for relying on it.

“I just think it’s nice,” he usually says in defense, a challenge in his eyes as he takes a sip of whatever’s in front of him, or a bite, or whatever.

But Potter has never explained the roughly carved beechwood clock in the shape of an owl which hangs in his foyer, or the smooth stone that sits alone on a small table at the top of the stairs. This, Draco finds particularly interesting. It is positioned so that the light hits it directly in the late afternoon, turning it vibrant and luminescent. On the few occasions he has witnessed this with Potter, his reaction has been inscrutable. And Potter, of all people, has always been desperately easy to read.

There are both Muggle and wizarding photographs pinned to the wall of Potter’s cramped kitchen, which doubles as his study. Draco recognizes some of the people in the photos—more Weasleys, along with Granger, Luna and Longbottom and a Gryffindor boy whose name Draco does not remember. Some of the muggle photos feature a young girl with Potter’s eyes, and these are slightly tattered and yellowed. Others, the newer ones, show Potter and a thickset man with a toddler hanging onto him.

There are still more of the muggle photos that are exclusively of odd things. Draco knows exactly where these came from, having been present when Potter had purchased the small, bright yellow disposable camera for Teddy, who proceeded to spend all 24 exposures in the span of an hour. They are all hung in a line down the wall, despite being of things like a bit of rubbish, or Draco’s knee, or the sky, half blocked by one of Teddy’s fingers.

Draco attempts to not find this charming, and does not examine his lack of success at great length.

And of course, there is the television. It had been a mystery to Draco for his first several visits, until the first day he visited uninvited and unannounced, barely pausing to knock before letting himself into the flat.

“Malfoy,” Potter said, jumping up from the sofa, where he had obviously been lounging seconds before. He was in only his pants, and there was an open pack of crisps on the coffee table, along with three mugs in varying states of mold growth. The whole place was a wreck, but it was May, and Draco thought he understood.

“ _I’m sorry, Mulder_ ,” a woman on the television said, “ _I just don’t think we’re going to find any more evidence here._ ”

Potter looked increasingly alarmed as Draco stood there, transfixed momentarily by the screen.

“What’s this?” Draco asked. He had heard of televisions—even in Slytherin there were mixed-bloods, and they had often complained of missing television for distraction during the term. As he had understood it, a television was a box, powered by electricity, with something like a wizard painting fixed to the front, but that could not be interacted with on any sort of personal level.

Potter, still with an air of panic about him, said, “The X-files,” and proceeded to explain the premise of the episode to Draco as they both took seats on the couch. Draco had been there very late that night, and when he had Apparated home his eyes were sore and weary, as if he had been studying for revisions for a week.

“Television,” he says now, “is the reason you have such terrible eyesight, Potter.”

“I told you to call me Harry,” Potter says. They are seated at Luna’s kitchen table, where Draco is reading an article on a lake monster that someone has sent in for publication while Potter keeps an eye on the clacking print press, occasionally feeding more paper into it. Luna is outside somewhere with Xenophilius. She knows to signal Draco if she needs help with him. It has only been necessary twice to date, but Draco still feels a creeping anxiety the longer she is out of view from the kitchen windows.

Potter follows his gaze to the windows above the sink. “It’s not even dark yet,” he says bracingly. “There’s no need to worry.”

“I do it for fun,” Draco assures him, with a tight smile, and goes back to his article.

“Anyway,” Potter says, “My eyesight has always been horrible. It’s genetic, you know. My father wore glasses too.”

“Well, the amount of television you watch can’t be helping.”

“You don’t even know how much television I watch,” Potter argues. “And my eyesight is fine.”

“You squint when you read.”

“Maybe,” he says, obviously nettled, “but I’ve still never lost a Quidditch match against you.”

“That’s got nothing to do with eyesight!” Draco says, the parchment of the article wrinkling slightly in his grasp.

“Yeah,” Potter agrees, smiing, “It’s more to do with skill, isn’t it?”

When Luna arrives half an hour later, they do not mention the scuffle. And when they fail to acknowledge Potter’s bruised arm and Draco’s slightly swollen nose, Luna, thankfully, does not ask, though Draco suspects it’s because she saw them wrestling like idiot muggle children and heard them shouting from the yard.


End file.
